


Mild

by hellhoundsprey



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Ace Castiel, Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Normal Life, Ass to Mouth, Barebacking, Bottom Jack Kline, College | University Student Sam Winchester, Complicated Relationships, Cuckolding, Felching, Grooming, High School Student Jack Kline, Jealousy, M/M, Possessive Dean Winchester, Possessive Sam Winchester, Spitroasting, Teacher Castiel (Supernatural), Teacher Dean Winchester, Threesome - M/M/M, Top Dean Winchester, Top Sam Winchester, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-08
Updated: 2020-10-22
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:20:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26896576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellhoundsprey/pseuds/hellhoundsprey
Summary: Dean lets himself get seduced by his ex’s/longtime neighbor’s kid. Things don’t turn out quite the casual way he hoped.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester, Jack Kline/Dean Winchester, Jack Kline/Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester, Jack Kline/Sam Winchester
Comments: 23
Kudos: 83





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AzrielRose](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AzrielRose/gifts).



> @azrielrose tagged [this gif set with](https://hellhoundsprey.tumblr.com/post/625468997896388608) _#bb jack goes to school #sleazy teacher dean #oblivious protective if he knew bf Sammy_ and, you know what? We deserve this.
> 
> Dean POV.
> 
> Tags will add up as we go.
> 
> The destiel in this is romantic/non-sexual (but very domestic and cute if I may say so myself).
> 
> Fiction =/= reality. Age differences of this size are super problematic, hence the "grooming" and "unreliable narrator" tags despite ethusiastic consent from all parties.
> 
> Anyhow—we're just here for a good time, aren't we? Enjoy ❤.

Dean’s positively out of his mind.

He’s done the math; it’s what he does. This won’t get him into jail, at least.

He chokes around the words, “Your boyfriend doesn’t have to know about this,” because there’s naked skin against his knuckles, right underneath those soft-soft sweatpants, and Jack makes a stifled lil’ sound but raises his hips so Dean can tug him bare more easily.

It’s maybe been a little too long since the last time. Since Dean’s touched someone, anyone; _been_ touched.

“Arch your back.”

Jack does.

Dean swallows, sucks his lips into his mouth.

Settles the waistband of Jack’s sweats right underneath his ass so they push it up nice; a little lower and Dean catches the promise of the cute pink of that taint, all peach-fuzz and goosebumps.

Dean palms Jack’s ass. Applies pressure to tug him apart, expose the kid’s tiny clutched asshole to Dean’s bedroom, Dean’s hungry eyes.

Dean licks his lip again.

“I’ll give you an A in my class if you let me eat it,” and Jack snickers into Dean’s bedspread for that because, “But you already gave me one,” and Dean’s apparently got enough soul left in him for a slice of embarrassment.

He croaks, “Tell me I can, Jack,” edges his thumb to that tailbone and already gravitates towards the kid. Feels himself sweating despite the glorious, brand-new AC. “Tell me you want me to.”

Dean’s barely-legal neighbor murmurs, “It’s okay, Mr. Winchester,” just in time before Dean’s mouth ultimately latches onto him.

Before Dean buries his face and his glasses nudge up and smear against his skin but all Dean can think and feel is the belly-deep groan of himself; Jack’s ass now in both of his hands and Dean slips to his knees in front of the bed to worship right.

Sticks his tongue out and strokes it thick and wide along Jack’s gash and God, Jack’s so soft here, secret and heated and just the right kind of dirty.

Jack makes good-boy sounds. Humps back against Dean’s face all shy, babbles, “Sir,” and Dean unzips his khakis in one swift, desperate motion, grabs his own cock to work himself.

“Call me Dean; ’m not that fucking old.”

Jack tries, “Dean,” and that sounds right, sounds gentle and willing and Dean sucks at him, at the adorable wrinkles of his hole, the sparse hairs. He could die here. It would be okay.

Dean chokes his cock by the base; wet and close already, zero to a hundred (yeah, way too fucking long ago that last pickup, the odd bar crawl too many moons ago). Keeps lapping and moaning and falters, then; confused because he _knows_ that taste, but…

Gut-shot groan.

Eyes closed, really working himself in there and Jack’s gasping for it, for Dean sucking at him and yet Jack doesn’t even seem to _think_ to reach for his pretty little cock, just humps the sheets and Dean’s face like that’s all he needs, and maybe it is. Maybe it will be.

Jack stammers, “Oh,” for Dean pumping his thumb into his ass next to his tongue now.

Dean growls, “You like that?” and is seeing double. Swears he can feel some of Jack’s stupid-ass boyfriend’s load seeping around his stuck-deep thumb and grinds it in with emphasis, feels his hair coming loose from where he’s tamed it back over his head this morning.

Dean doesn’t expect an answer, just like he didn’t expect any of this. Of Jack, here, with him, like this. That Jack really would…

Minimal resistance for how Dean tugs at Jack’s hole; pulls it open to lap inside right, to close his lips and suck on it, play with it. Jack’s moans are muffled by the bed, the back of his hand.

God, Dean wants it all.

“He fucks you good, yeah?” Breathless, stupid. More spit, ring and middle. “Keeps you all soft and wet like this all the time?”

“Dean…”

Dean bites, “Does he even know how to treat you right?” and rubs Jack’s swollen little prostate out, makes the boy clench and suck on his fingers as if that fuck from whatever ago didn’t sate him (of course not).

Jack huffs like a drenched puppy. Tosses his pretty head and fuck’s back at Dean’s hand; gets Dean’s knuckles while the other teases Dean himself, keeps him on edge just-so, because he can’t let go of this yet. Doesn’t want it to end, not yet, and his jaw begins to ache in that best possible way and his stubble catches on Jack’s skin on every move.

He ends up losing it though over Jack’s blissed-out, “Dean,” the ache and need and the weight of it. Stutters with his own orgasm but can’t stop taking care of Jack, can’t catch his breath, because, fuck, Cas’ll probably holler for dinner in, like, ten.

~

The neighborhood is aged and expensive enough for it to be that eerie kind of peaceful. Where the neighborhood watch is strict and the HOA mightier than God himself. Dean’s grown sickly attached to it, though. His car, his little yellow metal mailbox, the small strip of green others would call a garden but which he has long degraded to _strip of green_. He hosts barbecues out here, sometimes, but those usually take place over at Cas’.

“Mr. Novak.”

Cas nods, “Mr. Winchester,” and wipes some sweat from his brow with the back of his hand.

Dean makes his way over to him, past flower beds and all that curated shit he has no patience for. Looks nice, though. “Can I interest you in a goddamn beer?”

“Absolutely. Thank you.”

They chink bottles and drink. The late afternoon temperatures slowly dip the suburbs into bearable conditions. Dean grabs a folding chair to seat himself next to his neighbor, watch him manning the grill. Cas’ apron reads BEST DAD.

Dean whistles, frowns. “’S like sitting in a fuckin’ oven.”

Cas agrees, “It is,” and flips one of those veggie patties Dean mastered identifying despite the very convincing meat-look. The table is already set; Dean peers at his watch.

“Your kiddo back yet?”

Cas informs, “They’re upstairs,” and Dean sighs with annoyance. Saw Sam’s beat-up car on the curb, sure, but every mention of him stabs Dean mean. “Told them to be here in ten or they’d go hungry. Usually works.”

Dean grunts, “Huh,” and looks over to the house, the movement by the patio door he catches in his peripheral.

“See? Told you.”

Dean offers, all lackluster, “Hey, boys.”

“Hello, Dean.”

“Hey.”

Dean smiles polite but narrows his eyes for the taller idiot trailing after Jack. Is being ignored, pointedly, as always. Jack’s hand in Sam’s and Sam tucks some loose strands of his girl-long hair behind his ear from where it fell out of his high bun. Sheen of sweat, and Dean wants to throw up.

“Everything ready or should I get anything from the kitchen?”

Cas informs, “I’ve got it, Sam, thank you,” and gestures for the boys to go take a seat at the table. Dean hefts himself from the chair to join them.

Jack’s too good for Sam. Not that Dean himself could be considered ‘good’ in any which way, but. It still pisses him off.

Jack, with his neatly parted hair and his angelic patience, the tender line of his mouth. Looks so soft with his no-name tee, his Bermuda shorts, like not even the heat can touch him.

Sam’s rubbing at those knuckles, though, on top of the table.

“How’re you guys doing?”

Jack tells him, “Oh, great,” with a big smile, and Sam gets a hold of the nearest soda bottle to pour a glass for Jack and himself. “What about you?”

“Peachy,” insists Dean under a forced smile.

Sam hollers, “Mr. N, you want any?” and ends up filling Cas’ glass, too.

Dean nurses his lone beer with emphasis, elbows on the table and sweating his balls off in his jeans, his short-sleeved button-down.

It’s peaceful. Always has been; ever since Dean moved in next to this little family of two all those years ago. Dean’s not a family man, never had the urge—responsibility’s not exactly a Winchester trademark. But it _is_ nice, getting to have it in this second-hand kinda way. Cas’ huge clan of relatives? Not so fun. But this—Cas, Jack, him, that’s perfect.

Eventually, Cas announces, “Okay, last steak,” and both Sam and Dean raise their plate.

Their equally glaring eyes meet across the table.

Sam argues, “I’m still growing,” and Dean snorts, “Oh, are you now?” and Cas rolls his eyes.

“I will go ahead and cut this in half.”

Neither Sam nor Dean complain, of course, but keep staring each other down in deep, unspoken dissatisfaction.

Cas supplies his son and himself with another batch of veggie sausages and reminds, loud enough to hopefully reach their soiled consciousnesses, “Sharing is caring!”

Later, over the dishwasher, Dean nearly drops the stack of plates for that hissed, “He told me about Monday, y’know, so stop acting like such a fucking better-than-though bitch,” but he gathers himself, somehow, straightens his back and looks up at that tight, glaring face.

Sam scoffs with the tower of dirty glasses still clutched in his overgrown, wiry hands.

“What, you think he wouldn’t tell me?”

“What is this,” grunts Dean, “an intervention? Are you threatening me?”

“What? Jesus, calm down, old man.”

Dean warns, “Fuck off, kid,” and Sam does that sound again, that dismissive, nasal fucking scoff that Dean fucking loathes because it’s all he’s ever getting out of the guy.

Sam puts the glasses down, finally. “Look,” he says, confident and arrogant like he’s got the biggest dick, like he’s the freaking man of the house, “look, man, it’s his choice, okay? But don’t think I’m not watching you. Don’t think I’m not all up in there as soon as you turn your fucking back. He chose _me_.” Sam digs his finger into his own sternum. “Me, okay? _I’m_ his partner. Not you.”

“I—whatever, geez!” Dean collects himself, loads the dishwasher further. “Talk about making a scene. How insecure _are_ you, dude?”

Sam warns, “I’m not your fucking _dude_ ,” but drops the act upon Jack shuffling into the kitchen with yet more dishes. Turns away from Dean, towards Jack; curls his tanned, toned arms around Jack and kisses him on the mouth.

“What’s going on?”

“Nothing. Here, lemme take care of this for you.”

You can _hear_ Jack frowning with that, “Are you fighting again?” and both Sam and Dean exclaim, “No,” in perfect unison.

Dean rejoins Cas out on the patio with more beer and dread in tow.

Cas hums, “Don’t get me wrong,” and passes the blunt back to Dean. “I appreciate your fatherly instincts, but he’s old enough. You promised to let him make his own choices.”

Dean grumbles, “Yeah, yeah,” and takes another deep hit. Glares into the blooming bushes, past his very own nirvana. It’s not like he can talk about any of what happened to Cas. Ruining marble countertops or crashing a controller, that’s one thing—banging someone’s child, though, that’s…low. Even for him. He’s aware. Shut up.

Dean’s never sworn to be a good man or nothin’.

The heat screams in its very own frequency. High and nauseating, and Dean blinks, irritated. Tells Cas, “Nah, ’m good,” and lets him rejoice on the rest of their Thursday night treat by himself. Downs more beer, though. Prefers that over a smoke anytime, anyway.

He feels his phone buzzing in his pocket; once and firm and he frowns, sighs, begins to peel it free. “You got any plans this weekend, or?”

Cas tells him, “Nope,” as he expels his lungful. “Why, you?”

Dean murmurs, “Not exactly,” while he swipes his phone alive, and while he’s used to messages from unsaved numbers popping in, this one went out of its way and attached a video. Dean’s frown deepens. “Gotta hit the can real quick, be right back.”

There’s Cas’ airy request for some kind of candy from the living room, but Dean’s out of commission right now.

Stops once he’s inside the house and out of Cas’ orbit, frozen solid with his eyes glued to the screen where the magic unfolds, no sound because duh. But, well, it’s obvious.

He glares at the staircase. At the ceiling right above his head.

Imagines he can hear the bed thumping, but that might just be his brain fucking with him.

He tries to think of something clever to reply. Something snarky and cool, but there’s nothing. Nothing but the fury about how he already knows he’ll jerk off to that clip tonight, and that Sam knows that just as well.

Dean grumbles, “Goddammit,” and stuffs his phone back into his jeans. Grabs Cas’ fucking candy and retreats outside, defeated.

~

Sam’s pre-law, top of his class. Full ride and all that. Plays some kind of ball and obviously knows how to keep himself fit. Is polite to Cas, even though Dean can tell he’s not interested in bonding with anyone who isn’t Jack.

And oh, they’re bonding all right.

Dean groans, engrossed with self-pity. Contemplates grabbing his phone again, going for round three. Or: attacking the pint of Ben and Jerry’s he’s pretty sure is still waiting in his freezer. It’s almost midnight on a school night, and he hates himself.

He stares up at the ceiling and can’t sleep. Should, but he’s too wired, too riled up. All that goddamn kid’s fault. Baiting him like that. Letting Dean get a glimpse of all—that.

Dean picks his phone back up, two-handed. Hits PLAY again and the video is so familiar at this point. Still turns his stomach to watch, though.

Bad audio, but you can still hear Jack—breathing, groaning. The full smack of lube, skin on skin. The possessive span of Sam’s huge hand over that bubble butt, emphasizing the pink of Jack’s hole where Sam’s grinding his massive—

yeah, massive is the right word, and Dean’s so so pissed.

Jack might not even know that this video exists. That Sam sent this to him to—what, make a point? Make him mad?

Dean’s spent dick stirs hopefully against the artificially cooled air of Dean’s bedroom, and Dean sighs.

~

“Where’s your man at, huh? Haven’t seen him all day,” half-jokes Dean, clutching a fresh beer, and Jack kindly explains,

“School. Tutoring.”

“Huh.” Dean nods, accepts. Leans into the kitchen table where Jack’s taken residence with his homework, smiles up at him with one leg hiked up on his chair, his hair all soft and draping into his face. Dean pops his eyebrows, confides, “That’s what he _tells_ you,” and Jack chuckles. Dean smiles as he raises his bottle to his mouth. “What, you believe a word that little shit says?”

Jack informs, “I know what you’re implying, but you are wrong.”

“Oh, am I?”

“Yes, you are.” Jack rests his cheek on his knuckles, picks up the sentence he was writing before Dean found his chance to insert himself into this scene. “Sam is not the bad guy you think he is. He can be very sweet, actually.”

Dean snorts. “Sure.”

Jack grants Dean eye contact. Cocks his head, so much like his dad. It’s not fair.

“’S that what you like, huh? Sweet guys?” and Dean feels like a teen again himself with how clumsy his heart throbs, with how damp his palm is as he wrings it around the back of that nearby chair for support.

Jack just looks at him, all patient.

Dean finally chokes, “He sent me a video, you know,” and nearly suffocates on his own spit, the sip of his beer he stupidly inhales as he speaks. “Of you two. Last night.”

Jack tells him, “I know,” and Dean feels his guts clenching wrong, feels himself reeling with how quickly his plan of denouncing the shitty boyfriend slips out of his reach.

Dean nods, drinks, just to react in any way at all.

Jack’s mouth curves to a smile. “Did you like it?”

~

“Not here, oh fuck, your dad’s gonna—”

Jack urges, “He won’t be back until eight,” from where he’s dropped to his knees already, his adorable, mysteriously-constantly-bruised-these-days knees, his hands working Dean’s fly open and succeeding and if there was no door in Dean’s back, if he hadn’t turned the fucking knob himself and locked them in, then, shit he’d—he’d probably have to stop him.

As is, groans.

Gets one hand into that hair because, shit, oh, _fuck_.

“Is this okay, or—?” but Jack never ends that sentence because Dean helps him stuffing his cock down his throat, and it’s easy, so easy; too easy.

Dean’s fire, head to toe. Electricity and thrill and shame and he can’t stop; pulls Jack in and drives his hips forward and Jack gags nearly immediately, blinks his doll-eyes in surprise but focuses, keeps his bearings and God, Dean shouldn’t, so many levels of that but none are convincing.

Two hands on Jack’s head, holding him in place, making him take it.

Dean’s close to tears himself from watching his cock pumping into that mouth. From the nearly immediate run of tears, those two neat lines down those pinked cheeks because Jack’s _always_ neat about fucking _everything_ , folds laundry and dollar bills with more focus than Dean’s ever spent on anything in his entire adult life.

Jack’s little body struggles to keep up with the rough pace; two clenchy hands on Dean’s thighs, unsure what to do, unsure if he’s allowed to hold on, push Dean off.

Dean lets him up when the kid truly convulses, milks him so fucking good but Dean pulls out in wise foresight, croaks, “Shit,” and feels out of body, wipes hair out of Jack’s gasping sweaty little face. “You all right?”

“Uh-huh,” is all Jack has to say before he dives back in, takes Dean down to the base like he’s starved for him.

And maybe he is. Maybe he is, just like it’s the other way around.

“Jack, _fuck_ ,” and Dean’s voice sounds foreign to himself. Weak and throaty and coarse and he pumps into that throat in long, seemingly endless strokes. Rubs Jack out and Jack’s so perfect, of course he is; tucked lips and swollen tongue and Dean wipes at an eye, dries some of the tears like it even matters, like it makes a lick of difference.

The next break settles too deep with Jack swallowing so fucking heavy that it can’t, absolutely never, only have been spit.

Chases after Dean’s drool-ruined cock nevertheless, his face all dreamy and relaxed and his mouth pink and ready and open, and Dean can’t, he can’t.

“Can you get on that bed for me, sweetheart? Take those clothes off for me?”

Jack laughs wrecked and slurred. Again, “Uh-huh,” like he’s a toddler, like he can’t even speak right, and Dean goes halfway down his knees to help him pull that oversized sweater off, the heavy, thick cotton under which Jack didn’t pull a shirt on, of course not, not in this weather, but Dean’s still going dizzy with all that immediately bare skin.

“Baby,” uneven and shaking and Dean wants to hide, rubs their faces together but thinks better of it, groans into the crook of Jack’s neck like he’s wounded, and he thinks he is. “Baby, take those pants off for me, c’mon, let me see you, let me fucking see you right.”

It’s Dean who ends up doing most of that work. Has Jack seated on the floor on his pretty little ass with his back up against his bed, his ever-curious hand back on Dean’s cock, stroking him absently and tight and lets his legs fall open once Dean’s got all that fabric down to his ankles, and Dean groans like he’s been shot (again).

Careful: “Can we do it?”

“Oh God, oh _God_ …”

“It’s okay, I want it too,” and Dean’s face is pinched because Jesus fucking Christ you’re a monster, what have you done, you’ve practically raised him for the past couple of years, and he growls, frustrated and in pain and God Jack’s hand feels so so fucking good.

Dean hides his face in that neck. Gets his cheek kissed, his neck petted, the neckline of his shirt explored.

God, he can practically _taste_ him again.

“Do you want it? We don’t have to,” and Jack sounds so genuine, so worried somehow like Dean could possibly deny him anything. “I can just do it like this, with my hand, if you don’t want to.”

“’Course I wanna,” moans Dean. “You got fucking no idea how bad I wanna…! For how long I’ve…!”

“Me too,” confides Jack, shy and wonderful and like they’re dirty together, and he wrings Dean’s cock like a pro, like he was positively capable of turning this hand job into the best Dean’s ever had, and Dean fucks back at him like he’s already accepted the kind of animal he apparently is, like it’s already decided. “Me too, Mr.—Dean, for so long, but I just never thought you’d… I always thought that you…that you didn’t even like me at all, and—”

“Baby—”

“—and I, I didn’t want to make it awkward because you’re always so nice, and you smell so good, and I didn’t wanna assume anything because you deserve better, and—”

“Jack.”

“I—yes?”

Dean repeats, “Jack,” like he’s somehow got to ground himself, pull himself back into this realm, “I’ll do whatever the fuck you want, just tell me it’s okay. Tell me you want me to.”

Immediate, “I want you to,” and big, hopeful eyes, like it’s all true, like this is not puppy love but the real deal, like Dean’s hung the moon and more, and that fucking added, “please,” like this ever was a discussion of ‘if’ instead of ‘when’, and Dean bumps their mouths together then because he can’t take this shit anymore, absolutely _not_.

It shuts Jack up perfectly fine, but Dean fucking underestimated what it’d—do to himself.

To feel Jack’s lips, kissing him back. His already-swollen tongue slipping behind Dean’s teeth without needing to be coerced or asked, tasting of Dean’s own cock and the junk food he’d snacked on earlier before Dean invaded his home, his privacy, his homework time.

Dean can’t even tell which one of them pulls his shirt open, and it probably doesn’t matter. Nothing matters but Jack licking into his mouth, huffing his hot little breaths and his ass is in Dean’s hands as he hefts the kid up onto the bed, climbs after like he’s possessed, like it can’t be fast enough.

Pushes those knees into those candy-tipped tits and sinks two fingers inside where he finds Jack ready and wet, and he groans into Jack’s mouth for that, for the hungry suck of Jack’s ass on his fingers and he bangs them in, digs up and nice and Jack grips at him for that, throws his arms around Dean’s neck and vibrates from his very core.

Jack thinks to mention, “Sorry,” but Dean doesn’t mind, he surprisingly doesn’t; at least not _now_ , maybe later, when he’s got more of his brain back up north.

“This morning? Last night?” and Jack just nods, YES, and Dean’s primal and not himself, and the anger just makes his cock harder. He settles in more seriously, truly anchors his knees and it’d be easy to just…

“Condoms? Anything?”

“I—yeah, uhm.”

Jack’s nearly dislocating a limb how he worms out for the bedside drawer. Dean helps; nearly rips the thing off its hinges. Comes up with something fruit-pictured, one almost-new bottle of classic slick.

Dean’s already tearing into the thing while Jack wonders, “Can they go bad?” and Dean can handle the waft of artificial strawberry better than he thought, at least better than the knowledge that Jack’s been getting his ass turned out bareback for the better part of this year by someone who isn’t Dean.

Dean lies, “’S gonna be fine,” without that reasonable _probably_ , and at least he can’t accidentally knock up his best bud’s only kid because yeah yup he’s wringing the thing on like this is the acceptable, correct thing to do, and it’s on so fast so practiced Dean can’t help but feel slutty even though he’s not the one with some boyfriend’s load up his ass right now.

The plastic flies, tossed and discarded, and Dean raids the cute little pump bottle and wonders if they always buy this inefficiently, if this is just the emergency travel size and there’s like, a bucket of the stuff in that duffle Sam usually drags around.

Oh, God, he’s gonna fuck Jack Kline.

As if the kid can read Dean’s mind, Jack repeats, “I want it,” and pulls Dean in so he can kiss him, can cup both elegant hands around Dean’s face like he has to be the one being babied—like it’s Dean and not Jack who gasps, now, shudder-deep because Dean’s going slow but he’s going steady, tired of fucking waiting and pining and wishful thinking, and Jack sighs, “Dean,” like it’s a spell, like it’ll get him anything.

Dean’s cock pushes up into that slick, clenched heat like this is natural, like Jack was made for him and Dean makes a wounded noise then, halfway buried and it’s a lot, he’s sweating; remembers to somehow fight himself out of his already-open shirt and Jack clings to him as soon as he can, arms and legs and Dean kisses him, elbows framing those shoulders and that silent _I got you_ , but Jack knows that by now.

Just slurs, “Fuck,” and Dean finds a new level of throb because Jesus Christ, his dick’s so good it made Jack Kline _swear_.

Dean shushes, kisses. Jack’s got the mental capacity left to save Dean’s glasses, shoves them into the direction of the nightstand but Dean will find ’em on the floor, later, but that’s okay. That’s all fucking right.

Breathless, “God, you feel so good,” and that’s true.

Jack knows, nods, eyes closed and still cradles Dean’s face, searches out the rasp of his stubble and Dean bumps his balls up against Jack’s ass just because he can.

Jack makes that _it hurts but it’s not bad enough that I think I gotta say anything_ kinda noise with Dean’s cock fully seated in his casually-used guts, and that surge of pride is enough to kick out the last lightbulb in Dean’s brain. Dean’s dick might be all candy-flavored but it’s still gonna make this boy fucking _sing_.

Dean watches closely—the pink halo of Jack’s mouth, the hint of beard burn, the furrow of his brow—while he rocks in place, gets Jack’s tiny little ass used to the heft of him. Can’t remember the last time he was this hard, where he felt this positively like a God, like he was able to change anything, make an impact of any sort.

Dean steadies one elbow on the mattress and snaps his hips, and Jack’s body thuds with it, underneath Dean and the mountain of his body and he gasps again, shocked and pleased and he baby-tugs at Dean’s face to make him kiss him again, but Dean holds himself steady so he can grind his hips better, instead.

“You like it, huh? Like you imagined?”

Jack confesses, “Better,” and sounds just about as tight as his ass feels like, and Dean rolls his hips like it’s already time, like Jack’s already receptive to that kinda violence.

Sighs like he truly is, though.

Dean coos, “Big enough for you, huh?” just to see Jack nod like that, all eager and honest and echoing, “So big,” like this is porn, like Dean’s tending to this teen’s daydream fantasy like he’s a good Samaritan instead of the English teacher slash neighbor slash weird old man smoking blunts with Jack’s dad every once in a while.

Dean gets a hold of one doe-leg to uncurl it from his ass, shove it up and into Jack’s chest, and Jack’s lashes flutter all tender and his face morphs just a little, like something unfurled inside of him and fuck yeah it did, so Dean forces deeper, makes space for himself where there never should be any in the first place.

A fair warning of, “’M gonna fuck you now,” and Jack just nods, once and solemn and ready and Dean might be dipping down for a kiss, something, but it’s a general blur from then on.

Jack’s bed is older than Dean’s relationship with the Novak-Kline household but it keeps its composure shockingly well, just like Jack.

Shocked burst of breath, a fish on land.

Jack’s head is flushed within moments. Dean doesn’t dare make a noise.

Pumps in and in and in, through the clutch of Jack’s ass, aided by lube and sheer force and that heavenly negative pressure, shifts his weight after a while so he can move better, faster, more.

Tries to fully struggle out of his pants but gives up, discards that project for the pained bitten-back mewl, for Jack’s begging hand on his ass pulling him back in, back into focus.

Dean truly kisses him again, then. Tongue and too much spit and he allows himself a groan from somewhere too-deep down, buried and hidden for too long so it doesn’t even feel like himself anymore, like something he forged and nurtured and which reigns him, now, possesses him. And Jack, sweet little Jack, always so thoughtful and eager to please and they probably have to be real quiet up here with Cas in the house, Sam probably trained him so well to take it up the ass like the champ that he obviously is, all demure and silent like he’s not getting banged out like a goddamn pocket pussy.

Dean’s slamming into him with precise emphasis and maybe because Dean broke the spell, Jack vocalizes as well; a choked-off little thing that sounds like he’s crying, but he isn’t. High and desperate and Dean wonders if he’s ever come hands-free, if that’s a thing they do on the regular, if Dean can match whatever Sam’s been doing to this kid day in and day out.

Dean’s gotta know, “Close?” and Jack nods, he _nods_ again, teeth sunk into his bottom lip and so focused and adorable, his face all scrounged up and his hair barely disheveled despite being knocked around the bed, into the pillows (one fell off, they’ll discover later). “Fuck, you gonna come like this? On nothing but a cock up your ass?”

A strangled, “Uh-huh,” and Dean’s gonna lose it. He’s gonna go insane. How is he supposed to live after this, _with_ this, knowing that Jack’s—here? Somewhere? With someone else, looking like this, coming apart like this without Dean’s hands on him?

“Fuck, Jesus fucking Christ—!”

Jack scrambles for him, then, flying hands wrap around Dean’s back, Dean’s shoulder blades, something to hold onto and Jack barks, once and hurt and Dean fucking feels it, feel him convulsing and spasming and the splash of wet between their stomachs and he truly packs the punches in, then, makes it good and deep and milks Jack out from the inside until he whimpers and then some. Until he’s all spent and writhing and weak and Dean can just slop into his ass, can just enjoy the softness and incredible heat and kiss Jack’s mouth, lap inside and keep it open with one thumb bearing down on that drooled-over chin; Jack’s candy-dick-breath on Dean’s teeth, involuntary and shameless,

and it’s on one of those sleepy-puppy chortles, that certain kind of getting some real good anal and loving it a lot kinda things that Dean ends up losing it over, rocks inside one last time before he locks in, lets his restraints go and unloads—seemingly forever. Like Jack’s got him cursed, ’s gonna keep him going, no mercy.

Again, “Jesus,” hoarse and obliterated and Dean doesn’t know how he hasn’t fully collapsed, how he can still keep at least _some_ of his weight off the kid with how hollow he feels. He doesn’t pull out yet but rearranges them, hand on the lip of the condom until they’re on their sides, catching their breaths, entirely entangled.

Jack’s nursing at Dean’s mouth and Dean’s cock gives one last, immense throb.

Goosebumps, big time.

Roaming hand; Jack’s arm, shoulder, neck.

“Jesus Christ, kid,” and he thinks he’s going soft, but also not. Could go for more, maybe, in ten, give him ten; would Jack let him? Would Sam be able to right away? “Fuck, what’re you doin’ to me, huh?”

Dean hisses first, grunts later for how Jack clenches up around him on purpose.

Dean nearly rolls them back over. Locks his hips so he’s stuffed as deep as it will go on half-mast and decreasing, and he’ll have to pull out soon so the condom doesn’t just slip off, gets lost, but God, he doesn’t want to, he doesn’t.

“Can I just keep you? Like this? Forever?” and he’s babbling stupid, nut-talk and God, he could use a nap, and he’s got no idea what time it is, and he’s still got some tests to check on for tomorrow but Jack’s hair is so soft in his hand, against his face, and Jack chuckles like he knows, like he’s the one taking the advantage here and he holds Dean just as tight, pets at him just as tender.

Mumbles, “Okay,” and, shit, get your dick out of this, just fucking do it already, you idiot.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Won't you look at that, your ride to nasty town just arrived.

Sam Wesson wears an uncomfortably new and custom-cut shade of murderish expression.

Dean Winchester ignores it with all the natural elegance God provided him with. Eats his veggies and everything and Cas squints suspiciously at him for _that_ , out of all things.

“Did you, uh. How was school?”

Jack begins, “Oh, we,” but Sam overrides with his, “Great,” gritted and like a punch and Dean nods like he cares, takes the biggest of sips from his glass because yeah yup that’s all conversation he’s gonna provide tonight.

During-after clean-up, while Cas has conveniently slipped out of earshot, of course comes that, “Can we talk?” and Dean clears his throat because he feels like choking already, and he doesn’t even know why exactly he’s afraid, but figures that maybe Sam might’ve had some kind of arm day today because Jesus he looks particularly capable of kicking some forty-year-old ass.

“Uh, sure.”

Mocking, “‘Uuuuh’ great,” and Dean’s gonna smack the shit out of this kid. He will.

Already, Sam paces the garage like some caged big cat, and Dean’s arrival doesn’t exactly lighten his mood.

Dean starts with, “He told you,” and Sam snaps, “Of course he fucking told me,” and Dean keeps his distance while those arms cross in front of that massive chest instead of, well, probably punching the wall or something.

Sam looks genuinely upset.

Dean frowns. “You guys _did_ talk about this, right? I mean, beforehand?”

“Yeah?” Defensive, short-breathed. “Yeah, just—that you’d really go through with it? I’m—isn’t he, like—a _kid_ to you, or?”

“Weren’t they paying you twenty bucks an hour to help him out with his math?”

“Fucking _screw you_ , man,” and the victory is small, but Dean gladly takes it.

Dean crosses his arms as well, leans back against the doorframe. “So, you change your mind? Got your territory pissed on and didn’t like it? Not literally,” he adds, wisely, for that glint of ember in those animal-eyes.

Sam’s got inches on him. Plural. It’s a fucking wreck, all of this.

“Look, I don’t wanna be caught in the crossfire, okay? Homewrecking’s not my style.” (Been there, done that.) “He said it’s fine and that you guys _agreed_ that it’s fine. He came onto _me_ , Samuel,” stresses Dean, leaning forward and claiming more space like it even matters with Sam like a steam engine in front of him, “not the other way around. I’d never would have—hell, you know how long I’ve known these guys? You think I’d shit on all that just to get my dick wet?”

“That all he is to you? Something to get your dick wet in?”

Dean backpedals, “You know what I mean,” and Sam glares like yeah, he knows, and no, that doesn’t make it any better. “If this is an issue, you guys gotta sort that out between the two of you; that’s not on me.”

“Yeah, you know what, we should ask him.”

Dean nods. Balks. “Uhm—”

“T minus five, over at your place.”

“That’s not, uhm—wait, I’m not,” and Sam interrupts him, “Yes, you fucking _are_ ,” and Dean is left behind with his mouth open and some lame defensive excuse at the back of his throat and Sam leaves the door into the house open without meaning to, without granting that sort of chivalry to Dean, of course.

God fucking dammit.

“Thanks for the lovely dinner, Mr. N.”

“Oh, are you leaving?”

“Dean’s got a new game Jack wants to try out, so we’ll go check that out. I’ve got classes tomorrow morning so I’ll head home after, if that’s all right.”

“Why, yes, of course?” Cas is visibly confused, looks for Dean’s eyes and is one giant, sleepy question mark. “Dean, were you…?”

“Dragonball,” supplies Dean, already headed to the door, who’s lost his shame about his God-given talent of lying without batting an eye years and years ago, but who can’t deny his stomach to knot up just a little when it’s about Cas.

He hears them several feet behind. The decisive thunder of Sam’s steps, Jack’s flip-flops on asphalt and naked feet.

Mumbled, “Where are we going?” and Sam’s strict, “Shut up,” and Dean’s anger flares violent and sudden, and he has to clench his hand into a fist to keep on walking.

Sam in his house, that’s new. Sam’s giant hand slamming the front door closed from this side of said door? Blasphemy. Wrong.

“What’s your fucking problem, man?” and Dean turns just in time to get Jack shoved into his chest, soften the impact.

Dean stares his very own question mark into Sam’s stubborn skull.

“Do it,” prompts Sam. “Fucking kiss him. Do it.”

Dean splutters, “What?” and Jack seems confused as well, caught between them and turning to look back at his boyfriend. “Are you crazy? What’s your issue?”

“I said to KISS him, goddammit!” and the only thing lacking this scene is foam at Sam’s mouth.

Dean frowns, not any more educated on what this is about, but he looks down at Jack who meets him right there, puzzled and soft and he looks tired, has had a long day as well, and who shrugs and pulls the corners of his mouth down in defeat, a silent _why not_ , and Dean hesitates but ends up leaning down, pecking Jack on the lips.

“Not that fucking baby shit, you know what I fucking mean!”

Dean fears, “Is this some kind of prank?” but Jack grabs him by the chin, helps him out. Slips his tongue into Dean’s mouth and that’s unexpected, that’s kinda nice. Jack leans in further, really puts some leverage on him and Dean wonders if it’s even been him who Sam had been addressing, and his eyes slip almost-closed with how Jack’s got him stupid.

Eventually, Jack lets him go. Allows him to grumble, “There, happy?” and Sam has that bully-look playing around his sharp features that has a few fractures of a second left to decide between throwing punches or starting to cry.

But Sam does neither of those things, to everyone’s surprise.

Jack reaches out until he touches the thick puff of Sam’s chest. Tells him, “Sam,” and Sam’s jaw ticks, truly fucking upset and unhappy and this is more than Dean intended, he never wanted this; no matter how much he hates that kid, he didn’t want him to be this miserable.

And then, the unthinkable happens:

“… Sorry.”

Dean just…stares.

At Sam. The giant, the beanpole, girl-hair and Stanford hoodies and basketball shorts and he’s just a kid, isn’t he, just a stupid young kid like Jack’s gonna be at some point, like Dean was, once.

Again, “I’m sorry,” and Sam actually wipes at his eye then, swift like maybe if he can do it fast enough nobody’s gonna notice, and Jack crowds in on him then, leaves Dean to pull his boyfriend in, hug him for comfort.

And, yeah, that’s what they are, aren’t they? Boyfriends. Like, actually together. For months, now, with Sam inserting himself into the family and being nice to Jack’s dad and holding hands and hovering over Jack like he’s proud, like he’s able to protect, to keep.

“I’m sorry, this is weird. I’m such an ass.”

“It’s okay.”

“No, no it’s not. I told you it’s fine, that I don’t mind. But fuck, I’m gonna lose it. I’m gonna fucking lose it over this shit.”

Dean just stands on, in the hallway of his house. Pretends to not exist, arms behind his back, while those two hug it out and Sam sniffles, too-young. Only twenty-one; God.

Dean’s been fucking bumping shoulders _with a fucking Gen Zer_ , for God’s sake.

Dean Winchester clears his throat, entirely embarrassed. “Uh, should I…”

“You fucking stay right fucking there,” and Dean straightens, sweats.

Jesus Christ.

Daring, “So, no tissues for you?” and can’t help but feel satisfaction for that returned glare, the red in Sam’s wet eyes over Jack’s shoulder. Smug, “All right, all right.”

“You think you’re so great.” Sam’s hands, splayed wide and gentle over Jack’s upper back, now _curl_. “You think you can just get whatever the fuck you want with that pretty face of yours.”

Dean warns, “Watch it,” and Sam’s tone and his words don’t match up, and Dean flinches weird with it.

“Get it out, then. Do it.”

“What?”

Sam elaborates, “I said to get your fucking dick out, asshole,” and Dean blinks and his mouth opens, and he should say something right about now. Should denounce and counter and put the brat in his place but all his brain thinks of is to make him shrug, splutter like he’s lost all words, and _he can’t possibly do any of that_.

So Dean just stands there, frozen, with his tits squished up he’s holding onto himself so hard.

“I—what? Are you crazy?”

Sam tells him, “You’re gonna fuck him and I’m gonna watch,” and Dean’s mind reels into action and his mouth opens again but Sam interrupts. “Yes, you will.”

Jack pipes up, “Really?” and tries to look over his shoulder, at Sam and Dean, and he squirms in Sam’s grip but Sam doesn’t give him much space at all and just keeps pinning Dean in place with his eyes, the fucking weight of his intentions and the threat of what he might unleash if Dean denied him his will.

Could snitch him out to Cas, maybe. Take all of this away.

The danger shouldn’t stir Dean like it does; not that far south.

He stammers, “Jesus Christ,” and both Cas and Jack ran out of patience to remind him not to do that, not use the Lord’s name in vain like that, but what is Dean fucking supposed to _do_ here? “What am I, your freaking—this isn’t funny, Sam!”

“Been a couple of days, hasn’t it, _Dean_?” and the name sounds wrong, sounds off coming from _that_ mouth, in _that_ voice, and Dean’s eyes are helplessly drawn to Sam’s hand pushing down, cupping Jack’s ass over the loose fit of those shorts; grabs him tight and invasive like he’s already fingering him despite the layers of clothes and Jack tenses, didn’t expect that either and finds Dean’s eyes, pleading and hopeful, maybe, and, shit.

This is gonna happen, isn’t it?

“Miss it, don’t you? How tight he is? How good he feels on your cock?”

Jack gulps, “Sam?” like he can’t believe it either, and Sam shushes him, quiet but final and sneaks a kiss to Jack’s chin.

“That’s what you want, right, babe? Want him to turn your little pussy out?” and, God, Dean’s got goosebumps all the way up his fucking _taint_.

Again, “Jesus,” before Sam helps, orders, “Living room, sofa, _now_.”

Dean’s shamefully hardening in his slacks, bends to pick up some of the accumulated trash; flushes because God, he didn’t think he’d get visitors and he’s nasty, he truly, really is, isn’t he?

“Can, uhm, I don’t—”

Jack’s tight little body barely makes a sound being tossed onto Dean’s almost-paid-off sofa.

Impressed, “Holy shit,” and Sam snarls, “Yeah, no shit,” and Dean’s eyes jolt towards that snap of elastic, of the rough erratic moves of Sam stripping out of his clothes like it’s nothing, like this is the locker room instead of Dean’s fucking guy-den and Dean swallows, hard, because, oh, oh Lord.

Sam grabs himself, slaps the length of it down on his thigh.

“Like what you see?”

Dean begins with, “That’s,” and can’t decide—a lot? A health hazard? Just closes his stupid mouth again because Sam’s kicking his shorts off entirely, no underwear to be seen or nothing, and, yeah, Dean’s gonna die tonight. He’s just not gonna make it.

“I should, uhm. Close the curtains.”

Sam advises, “Yeah, you should,” with his arm moving, and Dean just, he, he _hurries_.

Crawls back to the sofa, to Jack clumsily pulling off his very own set of clothes with his cheeks all pink, his porn-pretty little dick all stiff in his lap and Dean’s mouth waters, stupid, helplessly.

“How am I—uhm,” and Dean’s voice and spirit fade for the grip Sam wrings around his arm, tugs him in and down to his knees entirely, in front of Jack but also himself, and the perspective makes things worse and Dean feels his glasses slipping down his nose with how messed up he already is.

“Eat him out,” and Dean nods, yeah, okay, sure, he can do that.

Jack’s legs rise with ease to settle on Dean’s shoulders and they push him all up in there with joint effort, and Dean thinks to pull Jack down some so his ass hangs off the couch for easier access, but it’s Sam who plucks his glasses off his face for him with Dean’s lips already sealed over the raw spot of Jack’s asshole.

Dean groans, remembering. Tasting.

Sam pushes him down with a hand on the back of his head.

“You taste that? Me?” and Dean groans again, nods his head as far as he can and Jack gasps for that, the dig of Dean’s chin and Dean’s mouth. “Better get him all nice and clean for me.”

Dean sucks before he laps. Really works his mouth in there so Jack can shudder, can babble wordless nothings and grip at Dean’s hair and dribble wet over the faint line of his treasure trail, into the tiny dent of his navel and Sam lets up on him, then, lets him do this, set the pace. Stays close, though, stroking himself and Jesus he sounds wet, and they didn’t even…nobody even…

“I’m gonna go first. And after you ate him out again, I’ll let you have your turn. How’s that sound?”

Dean wishes he could sound noncommittal. Could sound anything but wildly enthusiastic and needy, more like the fact that he’s the adult, here, that _he’s_ in control, that _he_ says what goes.

Around guys like Cas and Jack, it’s so fucking easy to forget how absolutely _lost_ he in fact is for being pushed around.

Sam reminds, “Get your dick out,” and Dean does; practiced and one-handed and fuck he’s so hard already, ready to just go and he wrings his hand around it. But Sam’s still-sneakered feet kicks at him and barks, “Hey,” and, “No you don’t,” and so Dean’s hand returns to Jack’s body, Jack’s halfway-tanned thighs and his ass. Rubs here and Sam allows _that_ , at least, and Dean’s swallowing another surge of spit, of Sam’s jizz and Jack’s taste and his breath stumbles with it, the fucking heat of it all.

Hears Sam commenting, “Cute,” all smug because yeah fuck you yours is bigger, but Dean knows what he’s got, that he’s thicker than most and maybe even Sam’s, but he doesn’t dare to really look at it, wouldn’t give Sam that kinda satisfaction.

Sam’s hand returns to Dean’s hair, helps humping Dean’s face up against Jack’s gash, helps him tongue-fucking Jack’s nervous little asshole and maybe they fucked right before dinner, maybe Jack’s still so fucking sore and tender inside and they’re gonna fuck him up all over, are gonna make him cry.

Dean’s fucking starry-eyed with the prospects.

Sam decides, “Enough,” and yanks Dean’s head back, shoves him aside. Reminds, “Watch,” and Dean only now realizes he’s been slicking himself with that same travel-sized lube bottle because Jack’s not fighting at all, just keens once and open and Dean watches, he does, watches Sam just bulling his way in there, inch after fat inch, and he curses, mutters, something, because Sam grits, “Exactly,” and bottoms out, balls smushed against Jack’s upturned ass and all and Jack’s little hand slaps up and against Sam’s stomach and he whines, pained and real and, God, Dean can relate, he fucking _can_.

On his ass right next to them, face practically still up in there and in complete awe, gawping and breathless and Sam tells him to,

“Work that pretty dick for me, Dean, do it. Touch yourself while I fuck his ass, fucking _do it_ ,”

and Dean, Dean is just a simple man.

Chokes around his next swallow and he still feels, still tastes, and Sam’s grunting all feral as he drops his weight over and over, still short strokes that keep him mostly buried just to carve some space back out for himself, and Jack’s caught and tense and folded up all neat and his head is beaming with heat, all scarlet and compromised and he chokes, “Sam,” and gets Sam’s mouth immediately, makes love to it like he needs it, like he’s drowning.

Sam pants, “What?” and Dean’s fucking shocked for the backhand, the cruel squeeze of Sam’s hand on Jack’s puffy little cheeks right after. “What, huh? You need anything?”

Jack can’t reply, not with Sam thrusting up into his guts so hard Dean swears he can see it thumping that cute little pooch of his belly out.

So, Sam provides, “Here?” and wedges three of his endless fingers into Jack’s mouth, feeds them all the way down to the knuckles like Jack’s not gagging around them, like they’re not obviously too much but Jack allows it, just lets him and sobs, adorable, and Dean now wonders how in the fuck they ever manage to keep it down, how Jack’s still walking and talking if this is what he is subjected to on the (almost) daily. “Yeah, right here, huh? Down your fucking hungry little throat, stuffed on both ends? Come on then, get moving, fucking let him, then.”

Sam doesn’t pull out for rearranging the kid onto all fours, for climbing after him so he can get one knee down on the sofa and keeps pounding Jack’s ass hard enough for the little left-over baby fat to ripple. Jack hiccups under honest tears and Dean whimpers, “Fuck,” for how Jack still somehow manages to get a hold of his cock, helps Dean threading it right past his tonsils and splutters, now caught between them for good with Sam relentlessly pumping into his ass and Dean dipping down his gullet and he’s so small, they shouldn’t be doing this, not two huge-ass guys like Sam and him.

Sam groans, “Fuck yes,” and wrings both hands around Jack’s hips, keeps him steady so they can use him right on both ends, to Dean’s pelvis doesn’t end up breaking Jack’s nose or something.

Dean adds, “Holy shit,” hands buried tight in Jack’s golden boy hair like it’ll somehow save him, like it has the magical powers to close the gates of Hell and Dean moans, raw and honest, because he doesn’t deserve this. Any of this.

“Don’t blow yet, old man,”

and Dean choke-laughs, “Hah,” and he’d add something if he still had access to _words_.

Sam fucking devil-grins, truly dark and twisted now somehow and it makes sense when he really starts to go mean on Jack, hammers into him like this is a competition all of a sudden, and Jack keens somewhere deep behind Dean’s cock, sobs broken and full and tries to break free, get a full breath and his back visibly tenses and he nearly topples over, nearly collapses under all that violence and all Dean can think and pray is that Jack’s still got enough left in him to get all over his fucking sofa, that he’ll never get the stains out and just drag his fingers over them when he’s lonely, when this is all over and they ditch him, discard of him.

Jack sobs like he’s truly crying, but never, not once attempts to truly push Dean off. Has his hands still underneath himself, arms all lean and stretched so he’s at the perfect height and he’s gurgling all helpless, all used up and deep and too-wet.

Far-away, “Get over here,” and Dean follows, of course he does.

Helps Jack easing off the throbbing, solid line of his cock and wipes at that ruined face, just once before Sam gets a hand into the back of that neck to push him down, keeps slapping into him without pause, without visible effort on his side except for the rivulets of sweat, and he snarls, “Fucking come here,” and Dean does, mindless and dizzy and weak-kneed.

Settles on his knees, in front of them; Jack’s side and Dean roams a hand up his skinny back, through all that sweat and he thumbs where he’s pulling inside out around the fucking girth of Sam’s cock, where he’s pink and swollen and Dean’s mouth waters on instinct, and maybe he licks his lip because Sam says,

“Get in there, fucking suck it,”

and Dean doesn’t even think, not once.

Dips his head down and drags his tongue there and Sam snarls above him like it’s hurting him, and Dean purses his lips and sucks—on Jack’s asshole, Sam’s cock, whatever; and it’s just nasty and lube and Sam’s hips bang into him and that hurts but Dean can’t stop, can’t _not_ keep working his mouth and Jack’s muffled into the cushions but Dean still hears him, rubs at his poor bent little back and keeps sucking on his sore rim and Sam barks, “Shit,” then, fists one hand into Dean’s hair and keeps him there while his hips stutter, finally, while he rocks himself in place so so fucking deep and Dean swears he can feel it; absent drag of tongue before he knows what he’s even doing and Sam keeps snarling behind his teeth while Dean laps at him, flirts his tongue all around the base of his cock while he unloads. Some of it seeps out, too little space or maybe Dean wasn’t thorough enough earlier, and Dean catches that with his tongue immediately and groans, oddly satisfied, and Sam slowly but surely quiets down, then, goes all slow and, well…less violent.

Keeps his hand in Dean’s hair, though, uselessly. Just to hang on, maybe, and flinches when Dean takes care of him, mouths along the still-throbbing length of Sam’s cock when he slowly pulls that out. Curses him out but lets him, sobs one unholy, “Jesus,” when Dean seals his mouth over Jack’s gaped-open, now-empty hole to eat at him, suck at him like a treat.

“Jesus fucking Christ you’re nasty.”

Dean can’t argue. Can’t do anything but eat Jack out, bury his face, enjoy—this.

The warmth, the fucking filth of it all. The sharp taste of Jack’s insides and the lube and Sam’s come, heavy and creamy like a fucking dream, and Dean shudders, gags a little because oh God yeah it’s nasty but holy shit, holy fucking _shit_.

Sam yanks him back with the grip on his hair, and Dean groans, all fucking lost.

“You’re not done,” low and dangerous but more present again, now, less urgent and so articulated like the voice of reason, and so Dean nods, makes a dumb, “Uh-huh,” noise or something and one of Sam’s giant hands wipe at his face, his mouth, drag along his puffy lips and his ignored cock throbs, helpless, and, yeah, god, okay, okay. He can do this.

Huh. Didn’t think it’d be a challenge to stay up on his knees today.

Dean trembles; blinks up at Sam, lost, and Sam rolls his eyes a little and tells him, “Useless,” before he pulls and pushes at his boyfriend until Jack’s laid out on his back again, blissed out and just so so fucking gone, drifting and sighing and his arms all useless and limp by his head, both wrists in Sam’s grip just to make it easier to arrange him right. Blinks up at Dean like he maybe doesn’t even remember Dean’s here, but he smiles, then, hesitant and shy and just, so lovely.

Dean didn’t even realize that it’s Sam hand pumping on his cock, spreading generous amounts of lube.

Sam teases, wondering, “Think he’s gonna pass out?” and there’s bemusement, there’s a challenge, and Dean just chuckles, thick, and Sam’s smiling, too.

~

Dean comes to with the awful sensation of _falling_ , and his head meets the floor in a loud, nasty thud.

He barks, “Fuck!” and there’s movement to his left, a dangling hand reaching out for him.

Mumbled, “You okay?” and that’s Jack’s voice, somehow, and Dean rubs his own head with both hands and can’t make a lick of sense of anything, until his memory supplies, and things click back into place.

He says, gravelly, “Oh, shit.”

The house, the street—all dark, nestled peacefully into a good night’s sleep.

Dean repeats, “Oh, _shit_ ,” and his stomach drops, and Jack makes an unwilling noise.

Sleep-funked, “Whasgoingon,” from behind Jack and Dean urges, “Get up,” and he rises to his knees and then further, begins pulling at the two idiots still curled up on his couch and they just moan and don’t listen so he barks again, “Get UP,” and oh Jesus, oh Jesus no. “What time is it? Oh, fuck me, oooh, fuck me this is bad!”

Sam groans, “Dude,” and, “Chill,” and Dean has settled so far back into reality that he wants to _punch_ him.

“Do you have ANY idea how fucked I am if Cas finds out about this?! DO you?!”

“Jesus,” gruntled and nose-wrinkled.

Jack supplies, “We can just tell him I spent the night here? It’s not like you’re a stranger or anything.”

“Oh, yeah, ’cause we do sleepovers aaaaall the time. That’s our freakin’ _trademark_. Shit. _Shit_.” Dean rubs at his face again. Maybe if he does it hard enough, he’ll finally wake up.

“Dude, you’re overestimating Mr. N. No offense.”

“Yeah,” approves Jack, and, wow, that’s a new note from Cas’ golden boy. “He is _super_ oblivious to this kind of stuff.”

Dean informs, “Just because he doesn’t say anything doesn’t mean he’s not figured it out.” He knows Cas. Fucking brooder, head-centered. Had sat down with Dean weeks before Jack and Sam had made it official, all sincere and concerned and _Dean, am I a bad father? I thought he’d talk to me about this stuff. Do you think he hates me? Do you think he considers me a homophobe? Or am I too pushy? Dean, why are you laughing?_

Sam insists, “He didn’t figure us out until we basically slapped it into his face, man. You’re fine.”

Dean sinks to a seat on his coffee table. Sighs, face in his hands. Was nice while it lasted, huh.

“Dean,” and that’s Jack, soft and careful Jack with his gentle hand on Dean’s knee, reassuring in the exact same way he’s picked up from his dad. “Seriously, it will be okay. We will figure something out, all right?”

Dean’s too tired to argue. States, “Okay,” and massages his temples. “Okay, you know what—yeah. Tomorrow.”

“He believed the video game thing.”

Dean scoffs.

“Maybe try to get some sleep?”

“Yeah. Yeah. Night.” Dean has stumbled all the way upstairs and into his bedroom by the time he notices that they’re following him.

He squints into the darkness.

Sam grunts, “What?”

Jack insists, “Your bed is big enough,” and Dean is almost angry enough to start arguing despite his sore neck, despite the debilitating exhaustion. But they’ve already climbed into his bed, and God, he’s so fucking tired, and this is still better than the couch.

~

Dean wakes with a groan and a deep, deep pleasure.

Unfortunately, to the sight of Sam’s face.

Murmurs, “What the,” and his hand reaches hair, soft and short and, oh, oh, okay.

Jack sucks on the very tip of his cock with cruel emphasis, and Dean’s tired eyes flutter back shut.

Sam educates, “He loves doing that,” and Dean grumbles, still half-asleep. “’S how he wakes me up every goddamn day.”

“Shouldn’t you be at school?”

“Shouldn’t you watch your cholesterol?”

Dean growls a warning, but Jack letting him hump his face aids in soothing Dean’s temper. Dean keeps his hand in that hair to be able to push his cock deeper.

“It’s like six AM. Got another hour, easy.”

Dean just supplies, “Mmh,” and frowns for the mattress shifting with Sam’s movement, for the fucking bliss of Jack’s throat milking at him like this is breakfast.

“Babe, c’mon,” and Jack gets tugged and pulled but keeps his mouth strict on Dean’s cock, “he’s not the only one there is,” and Dean peeps through the minimal slit of his eyes just in time to watch Sam licking his hand, Jack’s bare ass in his other. He strokes his—yeah, very much raging—morning wood once, twice, before angling in and pushing his hips forward and he’s got one leg angled up and his top bun is barely holding on and he grunt, strained, as he pumps his bare cock back into Jack’s ass.

Purses his lips, brows knitted in bliss and pressure and god, Dean holds Jack’s head down, keeps his own throbbing cock nice and warm and buried while Sam uses him on the other end, like this is normal, like it’s nothing.

Throat-y, “Fuck,” and, “We filled you up good, didn’t we,” and Jack just hiccups and nods into Dean’s pubes and God, Dean can hear it, can hear how sloppy he still is and he flushes deep because fuck, him too, him too, didn’t even think of using a condom when Sam so confidently hadn’t, either.

Sam comments, “Nice and snug again though,” and god, Dean’s mouth waters stupid.

Sam’s abs flex insane with how he rolls his hips all slow and languid; one paw on Jack’s ass and up on the other elbow. Eyes closed in pleasure of what must be so wet and tight and hot, and Dean bumps his own cock deeper down Jack’s throat in a blind mimic.

Jack gurgles wet and happy.

Sam prompts, “Play with his tits,” and Dean reaches down, easily. Finds one and plucks, milks, and Jack mewls all stuffed, so Dean keeps that up, can’t take his eyes off where Sam’s cock pulls back all creamed and glinting wet between Jack’s ass cheeks, so long and fat it’s ridiculous. Works himself so mindlessly, so deeply that it shows that, yeah, this is an every morning kinda thing, Sam just casually getting his big dick wet before school.

“You want another, hm?” and that sounds sweet, sounds endearing like all this happens just for Jack, and maybe it does. “Want me to load you up some more, get you all nice and swollen for school? Brought the plug, baby,” and both Jack and Dean moan for that. “Wanna keep it in all day for us?”

Dean knows the sound of an enthusiastic YES around a throatful of cock; he does.

Grunts, his fist curling tighter in jack’s hair while Sam croons, “Yeah, yeah you do,” and snaps his hips quicker, strong and deep and Dean bobs Jack’s head strict and tight, fucks that mouth over his too-hard cock and he’s gonna blow soon, too, and Sam comes loud and growling, locked deep and his hips working relentlessly, like he wants to make sure he knocks Jack up _deep_.

Dean slurs, “Fuck,” around his own morning breath, helps switching Jack’s position from lying on his side to face down, ass up, rolls over himself to lie on his back and keeps Jack’s head in both hands to keep using him while Jack makes the hottest noises, while Sam knees up behind him and pulls his ass open wide.

Sam growls appreciative before he clears his sinuses, gathers a generous mouthful to hock straight into the pink quiver of Jack’s insides, adds to the mess and, shit, Dean’s gonna blow, he’s gonna be walking funny all fucking _day_.

“Fucking adorable,” praises Sam, and Dean missed him rummaging through his bag because he’s already got the plug in hand, already works the solid girth of it into Jack’s used little ass and it’s big enough that he has to push his hand down on the base, flat and firm, until it fully forces in; until it settles with a hard quiver of Jack’s entire body and Jack whines, desperate and plugged up and Dean suddenly horribly wants that—teasing Jack with how full he is, toy with the plug and rock it inside Jack’s body until the kid whimpers and begs him to stop, with all that come gushing in his rawed guts and that’s it, that’s what has Dean seizing and his balls drawing up and he groans, deep and buried to the hilt while Jack gags around him, milks him fine and swallows with no other choice, and Dean’s not even sure how that’s possible after last night but it feels like he’s coming so fucking much, like he’s somehow saved the biggest load just for this.

Sam’s encouraging, “There you go,” and Jack pulls off of Dean slow and teary-eyed with Sam’s hand in his hair, helping him out.

All Dean can say is, “Fuck,” and even that’s got him spinning.

Sam kisses his way up Jack’s spine. “You good?”

Jack nod-coughs. Allows himself to be guided belly-down, keeps his hips raised off the bed so Sam can worm his hand between him and the mattress.

“Here?”

and Jack nods again.

Dean’s seeing double.

Jack’s flushed, ruined head. The wet noises of Sam jacking him off quick and nasty, and it doesn’t take long for Jack to surge forward and gasp like it’s a surprise. Sam sucks at the pink tip of his ear until he decides that Jack is done.

Morning-sweet kisses to Jack’s neck, Jack’s cheek. Sam brushes hair out of eyes and settles in, just for a moment. Checks his watch and murmurs about a shower, and Dean gives him directions for both a fresh towel and the bathroom because he’s not an asshole. He doesn’t get a _thanks_ , though.

Jack is sluggish all over again. Seems to be dozing off, still sticky and not caring at all. Dean peers over the hunch of his little shoulders, through the barely-there gap in his curtains.

Man, he’s so fucked.


End file.
